


It Will Be The Hope That Destroys Us.

by WhatLocked



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, More tags to follow, Ratings may change to E for varying reasons as the story progresses, Serial Killer, mentions of abduction/murder, sadistic reminders
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-09
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-08-30 00:40:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8512048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatLocked/pseuds/WhatLocked
Summary: A dormant serial killer who likes to send reminders to his victims families has resurfaced and as Sherlock and John become involved in trying to hunt him down the case takes a more personal turn.





	1. The Dead Letter Room

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, because I am laid up in bed with two swollen knees and a bung ankle (alcohol and a friend who promise they are a master at parkour are not a good combination) and because I am a complete sucker for punishment I have started a new fic. This is my absolute first attempt at a real casefic and I'm not really sure how it is going to go, especially as it is only two chapters sorted, so what I am really saying is that this is an experimental work in progress. All in all, the really good pain meds may have something to do with it, but I'm not 100% sure. The sheer boredom isn't helping either. But, here it is and hopefully, it will gain momentum and turn into something just a little bit okay.  
> As mentioned before, I don't really know what I am doing with this, only where I want to end up, so if anyone feels they want to have some input please feel free to leave a comment or whatnot, (you will be rightly rewarded with acknowledgements and the promise of cold lemonade and jaffa cakes) because, honestly, I can see me floundering, but then again, I do seem to surprise myself in the most unexpected ways sometimes.  
> Enough of the rambling, as quite frankly, there is no other way to explain what I just wrote, and instead, here is the beginning of the story. Hope you enjoy and as always, contact from the other side (aka, you, my fantastic audience) is always a wonderfully marvellous thing that helps me sleep tight at night!
> 
> NTW

~~~~~~~~~~

The Postman’s latex covered fingers ran over the lip of the shelf, reading the labels on all of the boxes that sat in an orderly fashion on top of the shelf.  It had been a while, well and truely over a year, since he had sent something out.  The world would soon forget about him.  The families would soon forget about him.  That just wasn’t on.  He hadn’t forgotten about them, no.  He had monitored each and everyone, for the past twelve years.  Closely, more intimately than any one of them would ever know.  Maybe it was time for a delivery, but what to send?

He walked to the end of the shelf, eyeing each box carefully, with a sense of anticipation and then turned and travelled back to the beginning of the shelf.  

He stopped, just before he reached the wall.  The third box in.  That had been an interesting one.  He had nearly been caught with that one.  The bitch had screamed and screamed before he could get her into the soundproof room, before he made her write the letters, so he had to silence her before the neighbours called the cops.  Lucky for him, he had had a state of the art surround sound home theatre system so when, after the stupid cow had had her throat slit in the secret room below his house, a uniformed cop did come knocking on his door, asking questions about apparent screams, the Postman had only had to show him into the home theatre, at the back of his house and, already having a carefully selected DVD in the player, pushed play.  The sounds of Susan Backlinie screaming as the shark in _Jaws_ pulled her under the water filled the room in stereo sound.

The cop had been impressed and after a brief conversation on movie and the young mans obviously veiled jealousy over the fact that he could not afford such high quality equipment on his wage he left with a slight tip of his hat and a friendly reminder to maybe be a bit more considerate of his neighbours and then he left, not knowing that the cuff of the Postman’s black trousers were actually splattered in the fresh blood of Geraldine Hamilton.

Yes, it had been just over eight years since he had taken her.  Her mother had just now lost her husband to cancer not even two months ago.  Now would be a beautiful time to remind her of another loss.  Taking the lid off of the box, he reached in and pulled out a blue and yellow scarf.  Her mother had knitted this for her for her fifteenth birthday.  Something she would be sure to recognise as belonging only to her dear daughter.

Placing the lid back on the box, he carried the scarf over to the desk in the corner and pulled out a post bag.  Carefully, not bothering to mask his handwriting - it was much more personal this way, more taunting - he addressed the parcel to Helen Hamilton and then placed the scarf inside, making sure to seal the envelope well.

With a satisfied hum, the Postman tucked the parcel under his arm and then headed out of his secret room.  The parcel would make it into todays post and the mother would receive it tomorrow, the day before mothers day.  The Postman couldn’t think of a better present.


	2. Saturday's Mail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock & John take on the case of the Postman.

~~~~~~~~~~

John backspaced again and frowned at the screen in front of him.  Mary was furious.  Well, not really furious, but pretty fucking not impressed if her email to him, from not-so-sunny Cardiff had been anything to go by.

 

‘ _….your blog, John.  I had to find out that you and Sherlock had finally gotten your head out of your arses on your god damned blog, and by someone called ‘_ SherlocksDearStalker _’ of all things.  I thought we were friends, seeing as we were married (technically still are by the way - when are you sending those papers into Gerald) and I am the mother of your child and all, and I had to find out by seeing a grainy photograph of Sherlock coping quite a hefty feel of your arse in the park.  Don’t try to deny it.  The smile on both of your faces is telling enough.  We will be chatting about this when I get home next week.  Don’t think you can get out of, but for now, I have to go because your daughter is pulling everything out of our suitcase…again!._

_-Mary._

_PS - By the way, I am happy for the both of you.  So is Amelia._

 

John had been planning on telling her that, just over a month ago he and Sherlock had, as she so eloquently put it, gotten their heads out of their arses and decided that there really was no use for the upstairs bedroom after all, but it had been new and he hadn’t wanted to say anything to anyone.  Then there had been a case.  And then another case.  And then Mary had gone to Wales with Amelia for a fortnight.  And then last night, whilst John was tucked up nice and safe in bed with Sherlock someone - a fan of Sherlocks apparently - had uploaded a link to that picture on his blog with a comment saying, ‘ _Looks like I’ll never be upgraded from stalker!! :(_ ‘

Fuck - they hadn’t told anyone!  

“Are you still brooding” Came a calm, deep voice, laced with a hint of half-arsed irritation.

“Mary saw the picture” John grumbled, backspacing again as he decided that the wording to his reply was still not right.

“John, all of London saw the picture” was the flippant response.

John looked up and frowned at Sherlock who was laying peacefully on the couch, eyes closed and still in his pyjamas, despite it being quarter past twelve in the afternoon.  “She is in Cardiff” he responded, not wanting to think about eight million people knowing about their love life.  Sherlock just waved a lazy hand in Johns direction before it flopped back down to join his other hand resting on his stomach. “Geography” he muttered and then fell silent again.

John frowned harder and then looked back at the screen in front of him.  

 

_Dear Mary,_

_I truely am sorry…_ no, backspace.

 _I was going to tell you …_ no - delete.

 _It is true.  Sherlock and I have entered a relationship that supersedes our previous…_ God, no.  Backspace, backspace, backspace.

 

John was about to try again when suddenly the laptop was plucked from his lap and with in less than a minute Sherlock had one handedly (John refused to be jealous over something so trivial) typed a response and hit send, deposited the laptop back into Johns lap and had stalked back the couch where he gracefully dropped back onto it, resuming his previous position.

“What did you send to her” John asked, horrified.

“You were being painfully slow…and loud.  It was frustrating” Sherlock whined, ignoring Johns question.

John quickly opened up the sent folder and clicked on the most recent file.   As soon as he started to read it, he wished he had just left it alone.  

 

_Dear Mary_

_Yes, Sherlock and I are together again, and the sex is pretty damn great.  Due to the fact that Sherlock is now aware that the divorce papers have not been sent off yet, consider it done yesterday.  As for sitting down and having a chat about this new development, which, as much as I do still admire you, is none of your damn business, I am amiable but only if Sherlock will let me out of the bedroom as he really is quite fond of my impressive bed making skills._

_Hope you enjoy Cardiff, give Amelia a hug from the both of us, and next time leave your suitcase zipped up._

_Love, John_

 

“Sherlock” John groaned almost painfully, rubbing his hand over his face and then he laughed.  Just a small huff of a laugh, but it was a laugh all the same.  “My bed making skills?”

“I didn’t want to sound too crass.”  Again, John laughed joined by an amused smile by Sherlock.  

Just as the doorbell downstairs buzzed his computer pinged with an incoming email.  He opened it up.

 

_Hi Sherlock,_

_Thanks for reminding me what I am now missing out on and I am glad you are appreciating his bed making skills, but I am still stealing him when I get home.  Hugs to you all._

_Mary._

 

“Mary says hi” John conveyed as the downstairs door was opened by their landlady and John felt a twinge of guilt for allowing her to answer it.

Sherlock chose to ignore John, instead listening to the sound of Lestrades voice coming up the stairs.  It was soon followed by hurried footsteps.

“If it is less than a six, forget it.” Sherlock supplied in way of greeting as Lestrade made it to their door.

“Afternoon to you, too” Lestrade replied and then looked from Sherlocks prone form on the couch to John, sitting in his chair.

“John” he nodded in agreement.

“Greg” John responded and then indicated that he should come in.

Greg sat down in the chair opposite from John and started speaking, addressing John, knowing Sherlock would listen in.

“Eight years ago, a sixteen year old girl went missing on the way to soccer practice” he started off.  “There was no ransom note, there was no clues, there was no body.  A year after she went missing her parents received a small parcel in the mail.  It was her bracelet.  There was no note, just the bracelet.  A thin gold chain with a small owl hanging from it.  Nothing expensive, just the girls favourite piece of jewellery.  The only time she ever took it off was while she was playing soccer.  There was nothing on the envelope, no fingerprints, no DNA.  All we had to go on was the writing.”

“He hand wrote  the address?”  John asked and Lestrade nodded.

“He always handwrites the address” Lestrade continued.  

“The Postman.”  It wasn’t a question.  Sherlock had finally decided to join in the conversation.

“Yeah” Lestrade answered and John though he sounded defeated.

“First known victim, twelve years ago.  Last known victim three years ago.  No similarities between victims, age, gender, race, religion, social circles all differ.  No evidence is left behind, no witnesses are ever around.  The only thing that links the man is that he keeps items from the victims or gets them to write letters and then, over a period of years, sends them to the families making sure their grieving is prolonged.  But he never alludes to whether or not their beloved ones are alive or dead, just that he still has them.  Are you sure it’s him?”  Sherlock finally moved from the position he had been in for most of the morning, even if it was only to crane he neck in order to look over at Lestrade.

“The handwriting is a perfect match.  Same brand of post bags, same ink.  Nothing has changed.”

“When did the family receive the parcel?”  Sherlock asked, now sitting up and angling his body towards Lestrade.

“Saturday.”

“Just in time for mothers day” Sherlock mused and John was somewhat surprised that he knew what yesterday had been. 

“Mummy rang me” Sherlock replied absently, tilting his head in Johns direction, adding more proof to Johns long-held belief that he really could read minds.

“You do know that you are supposed to ring her, yeah” Lestrade said and Sherlock brushed his comments away with an irritated flick of his wrist.  

“When was the last time the family received something?” he asked.  

“Twenty-seven months ago” Lestrade provided.

“Any particular reason?”  Sherlock asked.  “Any birthdays, anniversaries?”

Lestrade shook his head.  “This time, though, the mother was still grieving the death of her husband.  Passed away on the 16th of January - Throat cancer.”

“I want everything you have.  I want to speak to families of the dead.”

“We don’t know they’re dead.”

Sherlock gave Lestrade a supercilious look.  “Eleven people missing, Lestrade, never to be seen again.  The youngest three, the eldest sixty-three.  Their belongings are sent, sporadically, in the mail to family members with no indication that the owners of the belongings had anything to do with the posting.  I think it is safe to assume that they are dead.”

A sigh, that said Greg was well aware of all of this, left the mans mouth.  “I swear to god, if you take away theses peoples hopes that they may just get their loved ones back, I will personally kill you myself” Greg threatened.

“It is false hope” Sherlock argued flatly.

“It is all some of them have left.  You don’t get to take that away, Sherlock, not without concrete proof. Am I clear?”

“If they accepted that they were dead, the Postman would stop taunting them.  They are playing his game and losing spectacularly by hanging onto that unrealistic thread of hope.”

“Have I made myself clear, Sherlock!”  The words were practically growled through clenched teeth and for a few seconds there was a heated stare-off between the two detectives.  Finally, Sherlock backed down.

“Fine” he huffed.  “I will be _delicate_.”


End file.
